You Remind Me of a Man
by columbine-and-asphodel
Summary: Sherlock is a living human experiment. John, an android medicinal ethics monitor, reviews the place that's been experimenting on Sherlock and is thrown by what he finds. Inspired by but no spoilers for The Hounds of Baskerville.
1. Setting the Scene

For years, human experimentation has been outlawed and condemned by people and governments across the world. It has been called one of the most vile, contemptuous acts a person could enact on another. Those words, however, are based in morality rather than the truth of the human condition. For so long as there are unanswered questions, there will be those who will obsess and seek to understand, to improve and change, the human body. Despite their words that damn the actions of scientists and seekers of understanding, the men and women in charge will still turn to them and ask that they challenge and overstep the boundaries they themselves created.

The year is unimportant- no longer written on tests or in catalogs- and the country has no name (If one were to go through the records of history, it would be found that it stood where once the country called England reigned). There is a war across what was once an ocean, and many people of the nameless, border-less country have been sent there to break the fighting and install peace. These efforts, kind though they may seem, are wasted on those who live there; the war is, after all, the fault of the very people who were there claiming to be peace brokers.

Both men and women are maimed and killed in the line of duty, serving as scapegoats for the anger directed at a government whose people would never step foot in the arid land now torn apart and painted in death.

As it is, the war itself is unimportant. The true result is in its treatment of the survivors. Prosthetic limbs are a common sight, just as they were years ago, but now there are whole bodies that have been reconstructed, men and women given second lives as androids after their own, natural bodies were hacked apart.

These are the circumstances surrounding the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, two men who have been made more and less than human.


	2. Gathering Evidence

The table was cold beneath him, the frozen metal so cold it burned his skin. The leather restraints on his arms and legs had been cleaned recently, a clear indication that something had gone wrong- or right, as the case may have been; the straps were only cleaned and oiled when they got dirty, only replaced when someone broke them. It was a strange feeling, being so helpless; it ought to have frightened him, or at least made him uncomfortable, but as it was, he felt strangely at home.

He lay spread-eagled, his arms out straight and his legs open just a click too far for comfort. The burning along his thighs was not unbearable, or even particularly painful. Like most things, it was a small annoyance- easily ignored in favor of a detailed look at the skin on the back of his eyelids. It was strange, how even though he had seen it more times than he could remember, he never saw the same arrangement of light-remnants when his eyes closed.

A woman's voice interrupted his ruminations.

"Name?"

Ah. This game again, was it? Really, it was not even worth baiting the woman anymore. He could smell her perfume (recently reapplied, trying as she was to impress her boss, which was silly since even he knew the man was homosexual) and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Perhaps she might find someone else if she stopped wearing such a ghastly scent; she may as well have poured the bottle down his nose, it was so strong.

Opening his eyes- slowly, to avoid the sting that would come from going from the pleasant darkness of closed eyes to the excruciatingly bright lights in the lab- he looked right into the face of today's tormenter.

"Hello, Irene. Come to give me more sedatives?" he asked blandly, enjoying the slightly wrinkling in her brow.

"Name?" she repeated, regaining her composer.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered wearily. Why they felt it necessary for him to constantly say his name was beyond him. For all he knew, it wasn't even his name. It was probably the name of the project they were running and had not been bothered to give their subject an actual name.

"Good. Now, Sherlock, today we're going to be working with your DNA again." She held up a hand to stop his complaint before he could even open his mouth. "I know you don't like it, but that's how it is. The improvements in your body we've seen are more than reason enough to continue this. Today we'll be working on your muscles again, so it's yak DNA again."

He groaned emphatically; DNA mixing was always painful, but yak DNA always left him in the most pain.

"Now, now. There's going to be an inspection of the upper floor today, so you're going to have to be quiet, Sherlock. We can't have you making noise and groaning like you usually do. We were going to put this off for a day or two, but we've been doing this regularly and suddenly breaking that cycle could have negative results for the study. Therefore, you'll be having your shot today, and _you will be quiet_."

She then pulled out a long needle attached to a syringe filled with an opaque substance which she drove into a muscle in his right shoulder.

The pain was instantaneous, a sudden rushing feeling as though all his blood were gathering in his shoulder.

A scream ripped from his throat then- a high, keening cry that reverberated through the entire building long after his initial screech was cut short.

* * *

><p>John Watson woke to a cold room and an even colder bed, just as he always did. It was worse now, of course, since he had gotten used to the scorching land across the ocean. There, the cold had been welcome, beneficial even, but back in his home, it was only one more reminder of his loss.<p>

He shook his head, more to give it a jump start than to try to dislodge the discomfort clawing at his gut; he was used to the feeling and felt no need to try to get rid of it.

Sighing, he got up from his bed and slowly made his way to the bathroom, his muscles protesting weakly as they warmed up.

Once safely inside, he flicked the light switch, wincing at the brightness. As he got used to the level of light, he looked down at himself. It was something he did every day, looking down at his naked body and taking inventory of any changes or damages in it. His flesh parts were fine, save a few large bruises and a cut or two. Reluctantly, he was still somewhat repulsed by them, he looked over his robotic parts. His left arm was completely made of metal (The military was not about to pay extra for limbs that had skin-like coverings) and glinted smugly at him. From his left hip down, that leg was not made of bone, either, but it was constantly covered, so he had less animosity towards it. The real disdain, was saved for his face. The metal there was dull, smoothly transforming into flesh in waves across the middle of his forehead, just to the left of his nose (which was happily his own) and down the groove where once he had had smile lines. Even his left eye was gone, replaced with a robotic His one saving grace was that his lips were still his own, the same flesh he had always known; whenever he grew depressed after seeing the rest of his body, he always found solace in the familiarity of his mouth.

His check finished- no glitches or extra damage to be found- he walked to the bath and turned on the hot water, pleasantly surprised to find that it came on after only a few seconds. Steam soon rose around him, its heat soaking into John's aching body, while he sat on the rim and stuck his head in, breathing deeply.

By the time he managed to stand up and duck into the warm spray, he was feeling somewhat human again, even if a stubborn voice in his head sneered and said he was nothing like a human.

* * *

><p>There were always other voices in his head, usually the sound made by whatever animal whose DNA was merging with his own. This time, however, it was a human voice, one whose lilting accent and strange stresses and intonation were making it sound as though the voice were coming through water.<p>

He was about to reply, to demand that the person to whom the voice belonged speak properly and use words that held meaning, when another wave of pain crashed over him.

His response was drowned in screams.

* * *

><p>"Ah, Doctor Adler, it's a pleasure to meet you," John said, shaking the scientist's hand and ignoring the wave of unease that gripped his stomach. Just because he had had a bad experience with them did not mean that all doctors were cruel scavengers who only saw patients as experiments, rather than people. It did give him an extra incentive to be tenacious when it came to his new job- inspecting science labs and being sure they were not engaging in unlawful experiments. In his first year alone, he had rooted out twelve "factories"- labs where the participants were human and unwilling or coerced into taking part in the projects. They had all made him sick, and it stung that there were more of the places out there. He might not be able to fight anymore, his body too delicate, but there were still things he could do.<p>

"The pleasure is mine, Mr... Watson, was it?" the scientist answered, flashing him a bright smile that, rather than reassuring him, set his teeth on edge.

He huffed a small laugh and nodded, thinking once more how yet another woman was out of his league. Admittedly, being a scientist meant that she probably would have less of a problem with his artificial body parts than most women, but still... He was more than aware of how close he was to being considered a machine. Hell, even _he _considered himself one some days.

Adler took a step forward and gestured that John should follow, which he did reluctantly. There was something off about her; she was too friendly, too happy to let him go through her records and poke about. One thing that had become clear to him was that scientists were incredibly possessive when it came to their precious places of experimentation.

_What's she hiding, then? _he thought, but he was careful not to become aggressive. They were worse than dogs when it came to noticing changes in demeanor.

She lead him to a small room with a few computers and an external hard drive. In the corner of the floor was a small vent, which immediately drew John's attention. Floor vents were rarely, if ever, used. They were far too unreliable and easily damaged- yet another point of curiosity.

Once he was seated and logged onto the computers, he was left alone to do his job. As he settled into his routine of clicking, searching, double-checking, then moving on, the feeling that something was wrong continued to assail him, and he soon found that it was impossible to give his task the thought and attention it required, which mean only one thing: time for snooping.

Though it was frowned on, the act of actually going through a lab and the surrounding area, as well as interviewing workers was still allowed. As a servant of the government, John was to be given the truth, and if he felt that he was being told lies or half-truths, it was well within his rights to go looking. Since that tended to alienate the rather finicky scientists, particularly if they were not guilty, John usually chose to simply go through records and listen to his gut.

At the moment, his gut was shouting that he was missing something important.

John glanced over at the vent, then at the door, then back again.

"Sod it," he muttered to himself as he got up and went to kneel down by the vent.

While there was nothing overtly wrong about it, John's gut was still demanding that he continue his investigation, so he kept looking. There had to be something; there was always something...

"Ah, found you," he whispered to an almost invisible incision in the carpet, which he then proceeded to rip apart, damages be damned. He was on the hunt again, and his hatred of paper work was hardly enough to stop him from finding out whatever it was that the doctor was hiding.

Once he had pulled up all the carpet around the vent, he saw that the vent was, in fact, serving as the handle to a trapdoor.

He had it wrenched open and had already dived through before realizing that he really ought to have looked first and that just thrusting himself into enemy territory was a bad idea- a very appealing, very satisfying bad idea.

Whatever John had been expecting to find at the bottom, it was nothing on the scale of what he actually found.


	3. Breaking Through

Sherlock was locked in his cage when he heard the ceiling door open, a surprised shout and the sound of something heavy landing on the floor. It caught his interest for a moment, as an unfamiliar voice said something he could not understand. Heavy, running footsteps followed the stranger's voice, as well as angry shouting from someone whose voice he recognized... somehow... Ah, yes. It belonged to the head of security, the distinctive Essex accent identifying him.

Sherlock continued to try to focus on what was happening, though everyone's words continued to be lost on him. The post-DNA merge always left him out of it and unable to understand most human speech, which was frustrating for someone as articulate as he, but as he was kept in a constant shift of pain and sedatives, there was nothing he could do.

Time passed slowly as he attempted to eavesdrop on the conversation going on between Doctor Adler, members of security and the stranger. He half hoped that they were deciding to scrap the project. He had no fears of death- the only fate he could have after living his entire life separated from the rest of humanity; it could be no worse than having to watch uselessly as his humanity, his abilities to speak and understand, were stripped away.

Little by little, he was able to understand more words but was still unable to comprehend what was happening.

Eventually, there was a loud crack, like thunder, then silence.

Sherlock fell asleep at that point, since he could not see what going on and trying to piece things together was giving him a headache.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, Sherlock was floating, but he was too weak to shout, only barely managing to grip whatever it was that was holding him a bit tighter.<p>

"Easy there, mate," said a soft voice. There was an emotion in it, Sherlock was sure of it, but he could not place it. It was not anger or repulsion- the emotions he knew best. Nor was it fascination or reprimand. Again puzzled but unable to understand, he allowed the rocking motion of the person holding him's gently swaying, yet oddly stilted, gait to lull him into sleep.

* * *

><p>Anyone who knew him would describe John Watson as self-contained, a man who lived on his own terms and kept a tight hold on his temper. Those who knew him would not have recognized the man striding purposefully through the courthouse, fury written in every line in his face and every striation of color in his wide irises.<p>

His limp was worse than usual, the rain outside the compound causing his body to ache deeply. It made his already dark mood still darker as he made his way through the barely lit corridors. He was not surprised- not surprised at all, actually- that even though he had an order to stop the execution of a "lab rat"- someone who had been subjected to experimentation- the only person who was going to do anything to actually stop the damn needles was him.

"Damn it all," he whispered harshly, deciding that if he was going to stop the man from being killed, he was going to have to run.

It did not hurt to run. The word hurt was used to describe something like a broken bone or a stubbed toe. When John ran, his entire body started to tear, literally. The military had done little investigation into surgeon they chose to do operation to give him his metallic body parts, and they had been attached poorly. If he used his body too hard, the way it was originally designed to be used, it would begin to fall apart, taking skin and flesh and hacking at them the way a killer would use blunt knife on his victim.

He kept the memory of the ride in the ambulance in the front of his memory, mentally cursing his sister and her drunken assessments. He really was too sentimental for a soldier.

* * *

><p><em>No one was willing to touch the "lab rat", so it fell to John to open the cage- one of many but thankfully the only one that showed signs of use- and pull the... man from it. He was half-starved and dressed only in something resembling a kilt but lighter and white, like a sheet, wrapped around his lower body; there were puncture wounds all over his body, too, like the track marks John knew far too well. There was a strange cast to the man in his arms' face, an almost alien set to his features; it was a strangely alluring face, the not quite human suiting it.<em>

_That there were still people who thought that they could somehow get infected by touching people on whom others had experimented had always gotten under his skin; he had served with a man who had only had two rounds of DNA merging- thus was not considered to be a liability- while in the service. There had never been someone who was steadier or more dependable than Murray, and John had not taken well to mistreatment of his aid._

_Murray had died in the process of getting him to safety, yet it had taken John pounding on the door with a pistol in his hand for the men responsible for after-death duties to agree to give him a burial with honors, paid in full by the military and benefits of his family._

_Perhaps that was why he felt such a strange dedication to the person in his arms? Perhaps it was his way of repaying Murray?_

_It did not matter. The moment he had first laid eyes on the man in his arms, John had made a silent promise. He was going to take care of the bundle of bones; motives and consequences could be dealt with later._

_John made his way to the ambulance without saying anything, but he knew that everyone around him could see his discontent. It must have radiated through his body, because he felt his armful stir._

_"Easy there, mate," he said quietly, which seemed to perplex rather than soothe the nameless man, but after a moment he did fall back asleep, which John took to mean that he was comfortable enough. Or so wiped out he could not stay awake._

_Whatever the reason for it was, John was not contemplating it. He reluctantly handed the man to the even more reluctant paramedics, but he made it clear that he was going to ride with them- just in case there was an accident, their newly rescued companion the only casualty._

_The tension in the back of the ambulance was uncomfortable, but he was too absorbed in his inspection of the now-supine lab rat to notice it. There was more evidence of abuse and needle marks on his stomach and chest. It made John sick to look at them, but he felt that it would somehow be disrespectful to look away. It was no fault of the man's that he had been an experiment; the scars on his body were signs of life, like the scars John had on his body where his robotic leg had once gotten ripped off. Ugly though the marks might seem, they were proof that he and man on the stretcher before him were still alive._

_Distracted by thought though he was, the sudden touch of cold flesh against his hand caught John's attention. The other man was holding his hand and looking at him deeply, as if he could see through John just by gazing into his face. A question fluttered across his features, which John felt he recognized._

_"John," he said, nodding and pointing to himself._

_He received a tiny nod in return, followed by a sleepy, "John..." _

_Just like that, without knowing it or meaning to, the man had gained an unwavering right arm in John._


	4. Making a Statement

Sherlock's body was once again strapped to a table, his limbs and waist bound by leather restraints. Unlike in the past, however, he was dressed- in an a fluorescent red jumpsuit that marked him as a lab rat being brought to be executed, true- and the table was room temperature instead of frigid. He was in a small, harshly lit room that was part of another and separated by a layer of bullet-proof glass and a curtain, which was, at the moment, drawn back so the people in the gallery outside his tiny room could watch as the anesthesiologist administered the lethal mixture of drugs that would stop his heart.

It was rather unimpressive. Death by euthanasia was something that had been promised to him for years, and now that the time had come, he was almost bored with the dramatic set up, the silence of the officials who waited to certify his death and the grim set of his executioner's mouth. At least the people in the gallery were somewhat interesting. They were excited to watch him die, were getting restless waiting for the clock's hands to strike the four and the twelve. The mob mentality was quickly seeping through them, their agitation and emotions growing like a fanned fire, catching on each other and igniting them.

Had he been in control of his mind, he might have turned to survey them as one last recognition of human kind. His mind was not in his body, however; it was sitting cross-legged in the the far side of the room and watching the goings on with mild disdain. No riots or protesters, only people with a taste for the morbid parts of life, not that he was in a place to condemn them- far from it. Sherlock himself had found a kinship with death, a sort of understanding that those who have seen it and been set free will know.

The clock started to chime: once... twice... thrice... and ah, the fourth.

He looked to his body and saw the men gathered around it nod and the anesthesiologist grab the first needle, so tiny that it was nearly invisible.

The sound of wood splintering suddenly shattered the eerie silence that had taken hold of the room, and as everyone turned to face the door in the corner of room (conveniently located across from Sherlock) they saw a man standing where once a solid oak door had stood. His back was straight and his face expressionless as he said forcefully,

"John Watson, here to take custody of one Sherlock Holmes." He smiled then, a grim, not at all happy smile. "Sorry, lads, but there's not going to be an execution today."

* * *

><p>There was a mistaken belief that soldiers hated paperwork. Some did, true, but for John Watson, if filling out ten relatively mind-bogglingly unrelated forms and progress reports meant that he still had all his men and that fresh supplies would be coming, he would happily sit down and write all day. In this case, it was not a soldier's life that was being signed over to him but an "ordinary" man's; he was now directly responsible for a civilian's safety. As a soldier, it had been indirect; he was fighting and trying to save other soldiers so the civilians back home were safe. As an ethics monitor, he was a watchdog, hounding records and employees to sort the good from the bad, but he had never before been directly confronted by a casualty of the system.<p>

With a grateful gesture, he crossed the "t" in his last signature on the paper that put "Sherlock Holmes, orphan" under his custody and made him responsible for the man's actions. He could see the man in question looking at him from his chair on the other side of the warden's office. Sherlock's face was calm, only displaying a slight curiosity in the way his brows were beginning to pinch together.

"Well, then... That's all the paperwork signed. You and Mr. Holmes are free to leave."

It was a dismissal, and John was more than ready to leave. The entire place was dusted with the too-sweet smell of death.

John stood up, noticing that his new... companion, of sorts, did the same. With a bit of trepidation, he held out his hand a way similar to the way he used let an animal he had never met before have the chance to catalog his scent. That Mr. Holmes- as John was thinking he ought to call him- took it with only a bit of hesitation sent a small thrill through him. Animals were known to distrust robots, including humans who only had parts that were robotic, and while he himself had never been attacked, there were documented cases of well-loved pets attacking their owners' prosthetic limbs. That wariness was also noticeable in men and women whose DNA had been merged with animals- a group to which John knew Mr. Holmes belonged- so he had been worried that he might be perceived as a threat.

With a poisonous glance at the warren, the lab rat took three large strides and wound up standing quite close to John, who had not been near another person for a reason other than shaking hands in longer than he cared to remember. The close proximity and way their bodies were pressed together impressed on John the difference in their heights (The other man loomed over him) as well as the too-sharp angles of Mr. Holmes' body, reinforcing John's belief that his new charge had not been fed sufficiently.

Despite his ill treatment, the tall man was still oddly comfortable being next to John, which was puzzling, but he shook his head. It was probably because he had been the one to discover Mr. Holmes and to stop his execution or whatever political term was in trend at that moment.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the man on his arm.

Mr. Holmes nodded and pushed forward a bit, jostling John and making him start walking, which brought a smile to John's face.

* * *

><p>The man lead Sherlock to his car- a tiny, government issued black automobile descended from the ancient Volkswagen Beetles, able to be made cheaply and relatively spacious- talking softly on the way there. He said his name was John Watson and that he was an ethics monitor, which were obvious, as well as his past as a soldier and his family problems, but Sherlock remained silent. He liked this John fellow for some reason. Perhaps it was his soft voice? Or it could be the way he was considerate without making Sherlock feel like a burden? If he were honest, he might say that it was because John Watson was damaged, too.<p>

On the passenger seat there was a sheepskin pad reaching from the top of the headrest down the back and across the seat. When he sat on it, Sherlock felt his body sink into it, cradled gently and supported. After spending most of his life lying down, sitting had proved itself painful, but the padding made it much less uncomfortable. John's seat, he noticed, had no such pad, so it must have been something for him alone.

That was different. John had obviously had experience with someone like him before and was taking care to make him more comfortable.

Sherlock found himself likening John to a helpful shadow- always there but making no effort to be recognized.

The ride to John's flat went by in silence, John paying close attention to the road and doing what he could to avoid as many bumps as possible and Sherlock staring out the window, taking in the outside world, while contemplating the strange man beside him.


	5. Looking Beyond

Sherlock woke with a start as the car came to a stop. He had not even been aware of how tired he had been, so it was not surprising that his body had decided it needed a break. Still... the years he had spent with Adler and the others had taught him the dangers of falling asleep, particularly when someone else was around. He was too weak, too vulnerable during those moments of half-death, and it both confused and worried him that he had so quickly abandoned years of conditioning.

He watched as John exited the car, slowly limping towards the boot. Behind the man and around the car, the landscape was radically different from anything Sherlock had seen before. The few buildings that were not ruined were all low and long, made from the same grey stone with the same square windows. There was very little grass or things that were any color besides grey or muted brown.

If something could embody the idea of desolation, it was this place.

Despite that, however, there was something familiar about it- not in the sense that he had been there before but that he had seen something like it. As he pondered the feeling, he caught a glimpse of John in the rear-view mirror. The man's face was drawn tight, against the pain in his seams- the places where robotic limb met human flesh- no doubt, but there was a determined set to his features. With a small, "Oh," Sherlock realized why the land was familiar; it was the same as John: crumbling on the outside but still harboring life within. He briefly cast his thoughts back to his time in the cage, summoning up his memories of what he had heard and seen regarding life as an android.

There two types of androids: "fulls"- completely robotic bodies that had been equipped with synthetic memories and emotions- and "partials" like John- strange mixtures of humanity and machine who were, oddly, often held in more contempt than the fulls. Sherlock had learned about the few of them that had undergone psychoanalysis by listening in on conversations- rather than speaking to them himself, of course, as that was a far too inaccurate and dangerous activity. Fulls all had a certain amount of programming that was the same: basic functions such as eating and drinking, an understanding of gender and to which group they belonged, knowledge of how to speak English and other such ideas of things that were necessary to human life. Along with the basic code, there were the memories, which had been intriguing. People were given special chips in their brains at birth which would translate the electrical impulses that corresponded to memory into a tiny hard drive. At their deaths, the chips would be removed and scanned into a computer so the scientists could alter the memories. Once that process had been completed, a chip would be ready to be implanted in a secret location in the android's body, thus giving it a "life".

Only one android had warranted a place in Sherlock's memory. He- _it_- had been named Henry Knight and was rather fretful and introverted, particularly for a full android. His memories had been based on someone who had spent an extended time in the company of LSD, and he had often had flashbacks, constantly jabbering and going on about hounds and the death of his father. Sherlock had grown weary of his presence after half an hour and had been relieved to discover the other "man"'s cage to be empty after a week. That had been the longest amount of time anyone else had been in the facility, excepting the doctors- though they, too, had changed.

Doctor Adler had been the only constant, an incessant buzz in the background of Sherlock's attempts to reinstate stability in his mind. Her voice continued to reverberate inside his head, much like the final toll within a giant bell. Her smile, too, that most depraved of expressions, lingered just outside his reach. It had haunted his dreams as a child, and it would continue to lurk in them as an adult.

"Mr. Holmes?" a different, softer voice called.

Sherlock's head turned, and he was face to face with John, who had obviously opened the door was standing next to him. One of the man's hands- the human one- was outstretched, the same way it had been in the office earlier: not commanding or imperious, a simple offer that he could take or refuse.

Again, he took it, feeling the way John's fingers molded around his own as he was slowly and tentatively pulled into a standing position. The hold was loose and one he could break with little effort; a quick glance at John's face told him that it was by design. He had definitely spent time with someone like Sherlock. The space; the quiet, unassuming air; the pad... they were all things that let him know that John was there but did not have to be.

It was strange, quite different from the way most people reacted to him.

John did not let go of his hand as he slowly- his natural gait, Sherlock surmised from the way his body sank into the motion- led them from the car, which was parked inside some sort of dimly lit house, through a tall tunnel that was high enough that Sherlock did not have to bend over to fit and finally into a spacious room that was smartly decorated with some paintings from centuries past. There was a desk centered against the back wall, upon which a tall woman sat, her long legs hanging down and crossed at the ankle as she looked back and forth between a red a folder and a silver laptop.

A they walked to the desk, John was still in the lead though Sherlock was pressed close against his back. Drawing a long, deep breath, he walked forward, his grip on Sherlock's hand getting slightly tighter and pulling him close as he did so.

Sherlock could feel a sudden tension in the shorter man's body as he greeted the woman.

"Good evening, Sally- just here to check in for the night."


	6. Distinguishing Names

"Good evening, Sally- just here to check in for the night."

At John's greeting, the woman on the desk looked up, revealing face similar to John's: one eye that with a brown pupil that was normal and one eye that was black and silver. Unlike John's eye, which moved in sync with his natural eye, however, her replacement eye was in constant motion, rarely looked at the same place her natural one did, and sporadically stopping.

Sherlock had heard Adler discussing the evolution of prostheses with one of the other doctors, marveling at how they had gone from unusable items that merely took the place of the missing limb or limbs all the way to the brain-controlled and usable substitutes like the ones that John had, and even his were not top of the line. In fact, taking into consideration how most current prosthetic limbs and body-replacement parts were given coverings that mimicked human sick, John's exposed-metal limbs and face were considered nearly archaic. When compared with the woman before them, however, the steady black and red eye in John's face was extraordinarily advanced. In the woman- Sally's- case, the eye socket might as well have been empty; for all it appeared to be a serviceable organ, receiving input in such a random way would undoubtedly cause more trouble than being blind in one eye. Therefore, it could only be there as a sort of place-saver- not functioning or providing data but simply serving as a way to keep some semblance of norm.

It was pure vanity.

"Evening, John. I see the rumors were true; you've brought one of those freaks back here." The acid in her voice immediately woke Sherlock from his contemplation. Without realizing it, he pushed still closer to John's back and started to cling to his hand, his body reacting to being called a freak without his brain's permission; Adler had drilled that reaction into him, had wrested control from his command and given his body reign, knowing it would make him cower. Having John and being able to cling to him was grounding, and though the initial panic soon subsided, he neither relinquished nor eased his hold.

John showed no sign of minding, let alone noticing Sherlock's more intimate presence. The tension in his body was in complete response to the woman. He did not speak for long moments, simply let his gaze grow heavier and the silence darker until she started to fidget.

Finally, he spoke, and as he did, his voice was so soft it nearly died before it reached the woman's ears. It was dark and chilling, filled with the unspoken promises of the violence within a man sworn to protect.

"Just write our names down- Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. That's your job, Sally, and I'll thank you to do it without comment," he whispered.

That said, he started to walk away, only to stop after a few steps and turn back.

"Oh, and Sally? I'll thank you to be polite to my guest in the future. He is, after all, a _guest_," he intoned, heavily emphasizing the last word both in tone and with a raised brow.

Satisfied with the receptionist's thunderstruck expression, John turned to the left and went through a large hole in the wall, his grip on Sherlock's hand keeping the equally speechless man behind him.

On the other side of the hole was a pair of metal doors which opened after John pulled the collar of his shirt down, exposing a small portion of skin that was mottled and discolored. Stepping through the opening and into the small compartment beyond- Sherlock still in tow- he walked to the far left corner upon which a large keypad filled with numbers and letters and entered 2-2-1-B.

The doors closed after a moment, barely sliding shut with a soft puff of air before Sherlock felt himself rocketing forward so quickly he nearly fell over.

John whirled around and caught his other hand, though, and pulled his off-balance companion into something resembling an awkward hug.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "It's been a while, so I'd forgotten how bad the take off is on this thing."

"What-" Sherlock started, but it only came out as a croak. He swallowed, then tried again. "What is this?"

"Hmm? I can't remember the actual term- aero-something or other- but most of us just call it a cross lift. Same principal as the old ones that used to go up and down, but when you're in a five mile long, one story building, vertical ascension doesn't do much good."

"I see..."

Had it been under different circumstances, Sherlock would have insisted on a full history and all the mechanics and other properties of the machine- as well as an explanation about why John had needed to move his shirt before the doors opened- but as it stood, he was consumed by John's presence. He had always found touch to be a painful sense and disliked the sensation of other people touching him, but somehow John's hands in his and arms around him were much less repulsive. They were far from pleasant, but Sherlock found that he did not actively dislike them.

For Sherlock, it was as close to liking something as he had ever been.


	7. Declaring Positions

As the cross-lift slowed and eventually came to a full stop, the doors slowly opened to reveal a small, sparsely furnished room. Sherlock felt John carefully disentangle himself, but after crossing into the room, he turned around and pointedly held out the same hand as earlier. Without a thought, Sherlock took it and allowed himself to be guided into the room.

Besides having a few basic comforts, it was extraordinarily neat- the type of organization found in the homes of the habitually neat rather than the quick, pre-guest clean that many sought to pass off as genuine cleanliness. There was a sofa along the back wall that was long enough that even Sherlock could stretch out on it; there was a pillow at one side and two blankets which suggested that that would be the case. In the far corner, a meter or two from the sofa, was a closed door, but unlike doors outside the flat, it, like the walls, was made of wood. A small table- complete with two cups and saucers, a tea kettle, a bowl of sugar cubes and and a miniature pitcher of milk- was set up in front of the sofa. Off to the side was an old chair, one of the ones that had been around for thousands of years and showed it. The floor and ceiling were made of unyielding rock, which was softened by a small carpet in the middle of the room. It was faded but looked as though it had once been orange and black striped; upon bending down and quickly running a hand across it, Sherlock discovered that it was much softer than it appeared, almost like hair but short and smooth against his palm.

He felt a soft tug on his arm and looked up. John was looking down at him, a gentle look on his face.

"Welcome to 221B Baker Street, Mr. Holmes," he murmured.

A smile, strangely, moved across Sherlock's face. It was an odd feeling, one he had experienced very rarely in the past, and it puzzled him.

"Thank you, John."

The partial raised his brow at the familiarity but refrained from commenting.

"I assumed you'd like some time to explore and get your bearings, so everything's the way it would usually be." He pointed to the corner with the door. "Through there is first the lavatory, then the bedroom. If it's all right with you, I thought the sofa would be long enough, and it's more comfortable than the bed." A look close to amusement crossed John's face, but he quickly smothered it. "There are a few hidden compartments around the room, which I'm sure you'll find in your investigation of the place." At Sherlock's too-innocent face, John smiled widely. "I was told that you... left your mark on the waiting cells."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "Of course I did. There were obvious cracks in the walls, and I wanted to know what was in it."

"Ten kilos of meth, apparently- and just in your first cell." The smile on Sherlock's face widened and became slightly feral, and John gave a low chuckle. "I've got to take a shower since I missed it earlier. If you need anything, just knock on the door."

Sherlock nodded, already eyeing a floorboard that he had heard squeak earlier.

* * *

><p>Taking showers was, in John's life, both an aggravation and a comfort. On the one hand, he hated seeing himself naked; all the areas where his skin was mottled and melted into metal always made him sick to his stomach. They were reminders of the life he had lost and the one he had been given in return. On the other hand, however, showering was one of the few activities that he could truly do. The phantom pains would melted away, and for a few moments, he could fool himself into thinking that he was a man again.<p>

His clothes had been folded and placed in a pile on the rim of the sink and his towel placed on a hook attached to the door, as a naked John made his way into the shower. Carefully ignoring the pull of the metal on his face (It would have to be adjusted again, which meant he had to go see Lestrade) he slipped in, turning on the cold spray- warm water had chemicals in it that made his prosthesis start to rust, an experience he had barely survived once and had no wish to repeat- and began the arduous and frustrating process of getting clean.

About to rinse the shampoo from his hair, he heard the sound a shout of fear from the other room. Footsteps pounded towards the door and were quickly followed by furious knocking and the sound of man with a deep voice calling his name.

He was forcefully reminded that he no longer lived alone in 221B when the knocking and calling were transformed into the sight of Mr. Holmes bodily knocking the door down and rushing in. The man took a quick look around, obviously frightened, saw John over the drawn curtain (the height of which barely reached the bottom of his pectorals) and immediately rushed to join him, forcing his way into the bath stall, clothes and all. The next few moment were a confused flurry of motion and shouts of "Mr. Holmes!" and "What's happened?" that lasted until the terrified man managed to sit down on the tub floor and force himself into one of the back corners where, because those long arms and legs had wound themselves around him, he had John sitting nearly sitting in his lap, his face framed by a pair of trembling legs.

A few moments later John was still sorting out what had happened and where he was when Mrs. Hudson- the female full with the appearance of a doting grandmother who served as the cleaner at Baker Street- swooped in, making "tsk" noises under her breath. Pulling back the mussed curtain, she revealed a naked and embarrassed John Watson, hands over his groin while being used as a shield by someone mostly obscured by the soaking android.

"Really, John," she said unhappily. "What on earth are you doing? Grown men ought to shower standing up! And don't think I'll be the one to clean this mess up; I take care of the necessities, not whatever foolishness you decide to wreak on the room. And who've you got behind you? Is it that poor dear I gave a fright earlier?"

Too overcome by the situation, John looked up at her for a moment, then burst into laughter, his body nearly bouncing Sherlock's as well due to the force of it.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he eventually managed to say, attempting to find a way to keep his hands in their vital position. "This is Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, meet Mrs. Hudson- Baker Street's housekeeper but not landlady, so complaints about things other than general tidiness and late laundry will be promptly forgotten." The old litany fell from his mouth in the same sing-song manner most everyone said it.

Instead of replying, Sherlock merely moved his head slightly- just enough to be able to cast his gaze over her before nodding and returning to his original position. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Mr. Holmes has... not been feeling well lately, so please forgive him."

Mrs. Hudson was quite well-liked in Baker Street because, despite her tendency to dote and gossip, she did not outright press for information. "Of course, my dear. You just tell me if you need anything," she called, turning on her heel, undoubtedly already running through the list of things she needed to do in the next flat and the names of everyone she would see on the way who would appreciate hearing that she had caught John Watson, that quiet dear, on the floor, the shower running, with a fully clothed man behind him.

Attempting to explain the situation would be futile, so John let her go without another word and turned his attention to his fellow occupant.

The shower head was still sending out droplets of water like men from aeroplanes, as John waited for Mr. Holmes to say something but found that, somehow, his companion had fallen asleep against him.

He did not quite have it in his heart to wake him, just turned off the water and began to towel off.


	8. Burning the Midnight Oil

_A/N: I have a song for this chapter/the whole story. It's _Twice_ by Little Dragon._

* * *

><p>When he woke, Sherlock was on the sofa. Beneath the blanket that covered him from neck to toe, there was a towel around his waist which, after some investigation, proved to cover his pants, and one beneath his head. Judging by the dampness of his hair, he had been on the sofa for approximately fifteen minutes. He wondered briefly where the rest of his clothing was but found that it was neither important nor particularly interesting to contemplate.<p>

As he lay on the sofa and gazed into the darkness around him, a shudder ran through his body. It had nothing to do with the temperature but everything to do with the emptiness around him. It was exactly the same as the way it had been back in the lab. There was absolutely no light, only crushing darkness that, despite its inky depth, caused hope to try to coil in his gut. It tried to make him believe that he would escape, that there would be something for him to do, even as his mind told him that no, there was nowhere for a freak. Only unwanteds- people whose families chose to disown them- and orphans became subjects of DNA merging (He had read that in a book he had stolen from Dr. Adler as a boy, before she had realized that his wrist-binds were too loose).

Those thoughts knocked about inside his mind until sleep claimed him again.

* * *

><p>The second the time he awoke, no more than an hour had passed. It was even darker in the room, and it weighed even heavier on him, sending shivers of fear from his core to his extremities. Like every night he could remember, he was cold, so cold it made his teeth chatter and his fingers go numb. His very breath seemed to freeze against his chapped lips.<p>

As he lay there, something in the back of his mind made its way to the front. It was soft and rounded, not sharp and cold like the majority of his thoughts; there was a slow quality about it, from the way it moved to the way it eased around him. Somehow it had deliberately tried to make itself blend in and managed to do so (He would have gotten rid of a thought that slowed him, had he known about it) and was choosing that moment to reveal itself.

_'Sherlock,' it said, and he could feel it shaking its head- or at least the thought's equivalent gesture. 'It's cold out here, too cold for anyone to stay.'_

_True enough- but he did have to remain there, just as he had had to remain in the cage. At least he had a blanket this time._

_'John will be unhappy when he finds out.'_

_If he finds out._

_'Which he will. He's not a great fool, and you can see that.'_

_Point?_

_'There's somewhere you can go, somewhere warm. You'll even be able to sleep.'_

_Hmmph. Where might that be?_

The thought smiled.

* * *

><p>When he awoke the next morning- due to the dual efforts of the clock programmed into his facial circuitry and the recognition that he had been sedentary for a dangerous amount of time (His sense of dangerous versus necessary was unaltered from his former lifestyle)- John was in his usual post-sleeping pill daze. It always bothered him how they clouded his vision and made it difficult to process information; after being a fighter for years, he was used to waking up already alert and ready to move, and being unable to do so was frustrating. Without the opiates, however, he had found that sleep was nearly impossible, and the few times he could manage it, his dreams were too vivid and filled with the horrors he had tried to bury in the dirt behind his childhood home.<p>

The mental fog was what kept him from waking in the night when another body slid into his tiny-too-large bed and from noticing its continued presence when he woke in the morning. It was not permanent, though, and only held his mind in check, not his body, so when his elbow grazed something cold, it sent spikes of awareness to rip apart the fog.

Turning his head and looking over his shoulder, John identified what his elbow had brushed. Beside him was Mr. Holmes, obviously fully wrapped up in R.E.M. sleep. The man's face was as sharp and knowing as it was when he was awake and perhaps even more wary, but he had, for some reason, tangled a hand in the back of John's shirt (an old one his sister had given to him before he left for his first tour and despite its advanced age retained its shape and softness).

Again unwilling to disturb his companion, John resettled himself and took his phone off the bedstand, texting Lestrade to let him know that he needed to have more adjustments done and that he was going to need to get into the supply closet. He would probably need the extra rest, since he always struggled to sleep after a visit to the Custodian.


	9. Moving Forward

_A/N: I forgot to mention this earlier and will be fixing that later, but full androids look like machines. If you search for images of Watson from Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century, that's how they appear: a metal body with a face._

* * *

><p>"Holmes? Mr. Holmes, wake up." Sherlock woke to the sound of John's voice and a vague recognition of his presence. "We've got to see the Custodian today, and he's only got one appointment free today."<p>

The Custodian? That sounded intriguing. He opened his eyes and saw John standing a few paces away, already dressed. He had changed from his light sleepwear to a pair of straight-legged jean trousers held up by a tan belt with a standard brass buckle and a black jumper, both of which looked as though they might have fit him if he were heavier- old clothes, then. His feet were clad in heavy boots which went halfway up his shins.

"He only has appointments early in the morning, then?" Sherlock asked to distract himself from the unanswerable questions in the back of his mind. (Was John wearing pants? If so, in what style and color? Were they as loose as the rest of his clothing? Why would he need boots indoors?)

"If you want privacy- which we do- it's better to go early than late."

With a nod of understanding, Sherlock started to sit up, carefully tucking away awareness of the knot in his stomach. He was not hungry, so it was apprehension. As curious as he was about the Custodian, he was wary of leaving the flat. He had no desire to meet Sally Donovan or that Mrs. Hudson who had startled him. However, John had said 'we,' which meant that they were going together, so he was not going to face them alone. It was strange, how much comfort he took in the presence of such a crippled creature.

There was just one problem.

"John, what am I to wear?" The man in question shifted slightly nervously. "John?"

"Well... Part of the reason why we're going is to get you clothes, you see, and I'm afraid that you're just too tall to fit into my usual clothes."

The apprehension in his stomach quickly solidified into fear. Nudity- even with some form of modesty- was vulnerability; his skin was too soft, too easily damaged for safety. It was easily broken and torn and took a long time to heal.

He was put at ease by the rest of John's statement.

"...so I'm afraid all I've got for you is this old dressing gown."

John walked- limped, more heavily than the day before- over to the bed, held out the dressing gown and gently slipped it over Sherlock's shoulders.

"We'll have to eat after the appointment. You ready?"

Sherlock nodded, noticing the return of the knot of anxiety as he padded behind John.

* * *

><p>John had been lucky. Lestrade- the Custodian, he reminded himself- tended to be unhappy about last minute appointments, but since John didn't usually ask for anything or make trouble, there had been an exception. It had nothing to do with his past, of course; he was going to see a full, not Lestrade. Four years had gone by since John had had to watch his oldest friend and constant ally get mauled and ripped apart by a pair of enemy Hounds- dogs, usually mastiffs and bloodhounds, whose DNA had been merged with that of elephants and camels as well as been given metal teeth that were coated with anti-coagulants.<p>

He had nearly been dishonorably discharged when his superiors had discovered that instead of riding in the rescue vehicle and returning to base as they had ordered, John had gone back to search for Lestrade's head and arms. The head could be passed on to be given to a full, and the arms could be given to his family so they could bury something. In the end, he found Lestrade's entire left arm and the upper half and shoulder of the right.

The punishment and stripping of duties caused barely any pain at all compared with the pain of knowing he had left Lestrade behind.

No, the reason he and Sherlock had been granted the meeting was because he was generally well-behaved and followed the rules. Lestrade was just as dead now as he had been when John watched the great beasts tear him in half.

The breath he drew as he brought up a hand to knock on the door labeled **CUSTODIAN, THE **neither shook nor paused in his throat. It was as smooth and thin as the air in an oxygen tank.


	10. Meeting an Old Acquaintance

The door was immediately opened, revealing a tall, well-built full- they came in the same body types as humans- dressed in camouflage baggy pants- deliberate, unlike John's, and a white shirt in the "wife beater" style, as Sherlock had heard it described. His robotic body had been molded in a way that, were he only visible in silhouette, he would have appeared to have muscular arms. As it was, however, that was simply the way his body had been formed, since fulls did not have muscles.

A pair of soft brown eyes looked them up and down. Sherlock could very nearly see the full's thoughts turning, assessing them and determining who they were and why they were there. It was not until the head cocked to the side, making the grey hair gleam slightly in the dim hallway, that he realized that unlike the fulls with which he was familiar, this one had not come from someone whose body had been donated; there were jagged marks on the lowest part of the neck where the covering made to resemble skin was molded into the metal body. (In one of the books he had read when he was younger, Sherlock had discovered that fulls were given human faces to make it easier for people to accept them, but for some reason, the face always had to match the memories or the android would not operate correctly. Men and women whose heads had been harvested- as in all things, there was a black market for parts to create fulls and partials- instead of carefully removed in a laboratory always bore a defect on their heads)

When he spoke, the android's voice was soft, the accent closer to John's than Sherlock's. Its words were light and spoken with almost no trace of inflection, which was odd. Fulls' voices and speech abilities ought to rival other humans', but this one's sounded close to an advanced recording.

"John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, appointment at six o'clock in the morning- arrival time: five fifty nine, early. Excellent. Come in, gentlemen."

With that, the android spun on his heel and disappeared into the slightly brighter area beyond the door.

"John, why-"

His question was cut short by the pained expression on John's face as he stepped through the doorway. Sherlock followed quietly, making sure to stay only a step behind the partial. There was something else going on; he could feel it.

* * *

><p>The Closet, as everyone called The Custodian's room, was the same as it had been every other time John had come: empty. Fulls had little to no feeling in their bodies, were only slightly aware of changes in temperature and often felt uncomfortable in luxury- which was anything other than the floor; even simple chairs with slight padding tended to make them nervous. As non-living creatures, they did not need to eat or bathe, so there was no reason for them to have kitchens, lavatories or- or anything at all, other than a ceiling light and a door in the far wall which lead to the examination room. In the case of The Custodian, the room itself was more for the privacy of guests than for the android himself. (Fulls hated being called "it" and took on the sex of the person whose memories they used and faces they wore)<p>

He and Sherlock were ushered in and told to sit down wherever they felt comfortable, which wound up being side by side against the far wall. Once they seated, their host sat down across from them.

"What is it you need from me, John Watson? In all these years, you have only come to me for the mandatory, routine checkups and a few times for adjustments, but you have always come alone."

John nodded, clamping down on the bile that was rising in his throat and making threats to come up farther.

"Right now, I need a full set of clothes for Mr. Holmes, including shoes and outerwear, as well as some adjustments made to my... equipment."

The android's forehead wrinkled as his brows pulled together.

"You were here..." he paused and closed his eyes, undoubtedly going through his memories- which he could label and read like folders, "four months ago for adjustments. Has something happened to cause the parts to move- any trauma or extensive use?" John shook his head, which seemed to upset The Custodian. "This is quite strange, Mr. Watson. I will need to do a full-body exam before I make any adjustments."

Again, John nodded. As much as he hated them, he knew that it was important to have an exam before any adjustments were made. Considering how long he had been a partial, he ought to have gotten used to them by this point, but he had never been particularly comfortable with people touching him, and after being injured, which left him scarred and incredibly tender, his distaste for touch had only grown.

"I will send Mrs. Hudson to take Mr. Holmes' measurements once she has finished her rounds. It would be best, then, Mr. Holmes, for you to return to the rooms while I take a look at Mr. Watson."

John cast a glance to the side and immediately saw the repressed anxiety on his companion's face.

"If I might?" he asked, waving a hand between himself and the full. "Mr. Holmes is unfamiliar with the way things are run in Baker Street and has only just arrived. Perhaps it would be better for him to stay, if it won't interfere?"

The android considered it for a moment, cocking his head in a way that made John's heart ache, before eventually nodding his head.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes shall accompany us."

"Ah, that wasn't what I-" John started to say but cut himself off. Arguing with The Custodian was futile, and wasting his time lead to far worse things than an irritated android. He sighed, then got up, groaning at the sudden ripping pain in his leg. The damn thing always acted up in the morning, and spending time on the floor had not helped. "Best be going, I suppose," he said, his voice hoarse, and held out his hand.

He saw the trepidation on the tall man's face and smiled slightly.

"It'll be fine."

* * *

><p>Four months had passed, so it had been four months since he had been naked in front of someone else- the run in with Mr. Holmes not counting. Getting and being naked had never bothered him, so taking off his clothing caused him very little embarrassment, though getting on the examination table always made him feel a bit like an animal. Once he was seated, Les- The Custodian- came over and took his vitals. When they came back within the normal range, John found himself being gently pushed back. Taking that as a cue to lie on his back, he wriggled a bit until his entire body was flat on the table. The room was cold, so he was thankful for The Custodian's decision to cover his "natural" side, genitals included.<p>

As always, John allowed himself to drift off at this point, letting his mind go where it pleased as his body went through the unpleasant process of being pulled, pushed, poked, prodded and squeezed. He vaguely hoped that he was able to remain in this disassociated state when his parts were tightened, though that had never happened before and seemed unlikely to happen now.

Perhaps the knowledge that Mr. Holmes was there would keep him quiet, would stop the screams from forming?

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in the corner of the room, his long legs resting straight out and his back leaning against the wall. This second room was only about five meters wide but twenty long, so there was plenty of room between the table where John was lying, The Custodian fiddling tinkering about with the partial's hip, and him.<p>

Despite, or perhaps because of, the near complete darkness in the room, he found it peaceful. John's breathing was steady and almost inaudible, and sound of the full's gentle tapping on John's non-human parts was like an orchestra of only percussion.

He could have sworn the song it was playing was one he knew.

* * *

><p><em>Lestrade's grin, teeth white against dark skin.<em>

_"Come on, mate. We'll be fine; it's just another tour, just another round of driving this old tank around."_

_The sound of Hounds snarling._

_A body ripping apart._

_Scars across a familiar face._

_Tears pooled in his eyes._

_"Run, damn you! Get out of here, you son of a bitch! I won't forgive you if you die."_

_His own voice, calling out._

_A single vein in his superior's purple face, pulsing as he screamed._

_"You're not worth your feed... direct orders... idiot... court martial... useless skull... disgusting..."_

_The prick of a sharp pin in his breast._

_A medal proclaiming his valor._

_His bed, so cold, so soft._

_Nightmares of memories._

_Or were they memories of nightmares?_

_Murray's dying face._

_His mother weeping on his father's grave._

_"Make us proud."_

_Lestrade's eyes crinkling with laughter._

_Now narrowed in suspicion._

_Wide with anger, accompanying a screaming voice._

_His own voice, the voices of the men in his company._

_Dodging nurses and doctors and tearing his stitches, his unimportant wounds._

_Carrying home the evidence of his best friend's life._

_Honourably discharged for psychiatric and physical instability._

_Again, crying, Lestrade's grin dancing in his palms, a trail of blood spelling "Doctor" in script._

His mind awoke from the force of his own screams.


	11. Approaching

Screaming was something with which Sherlock was intimately acquainted. Much as he loathed being the one screaming, it was worse when it was someone else's voice scraping at his brain. He never knew how to react to it, could never understand what he was supposed to do- if he was supposed to do anything at all. Hearing John's voice, usually so soft with easy inflections, pitched so high it disappeared was more agonizing than when his own throat had been ripped and raw.

It was more than just John's voice, however. There was his body, too: his upper half bolt upright and held taught; blue eyes wide open and staring, like those of a corpse, yet seeing nothing; his short hands grasping at the place where neck became shoulder, clawing at the skin there and drawing blood; the chest mottled with scars, some deep and some light but all staring out with crimson fury, and trembling with the ex-soldier's emotions.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the screaming ended. John's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, only to open a fraction to allow him to pant out heavy breaths.

Despite John's shaken demeanor and the tremors that were traveling through his body, The Custodian appeared unfazed. He remained hunched over John's left leg, and though his back was to Sherlock, the tall man could see from the moments of the large, metallic arms that he was still working on Sherlock's companion.

Minutes passed in silence, until Sherlock caught the sound of a bitten-off whimper. He looked up sharply and saw that John had one of the knuckles on his human hand clenched between his teeth. Tears were quietly streaming down his bloodless cheeks, and it suddenly struck him that whatever it was that the full was doing, it was causing John excruciating pain.

That realization in turn sparked another: John was looking anywhere but at him. The blue eyes slid from corner to corner, concentrated on a point beyond the android who was now working on his face, gazed at the floor, took in the plain walls and roamed along the ceiling- anywhere that was not the corner where Sherlock was sat. There was shame written across the too-white face and in the way John's hand covered mouth, the way he tried to muffle the noises he was making.

Something about that reaction caused a shift in Sherlock's brain. It was moved from curiosity to an unsettling discomfort. Something about John's expression was familiar, and it made his skin crawl. That mixture of shame and complete pain... he had seen it before, had seen it on the face of someone he had known.. someone important, someone soft... someone_ soft_...

The floor was cold and hard against his temple.

* * *

><p>When he opened his eyes again, he recognized the ceiling above the sofa in 221B. After a moment or shuffling and wriggling, his body told that he was indeed lying on the sofa. How he had gotten there, however, he could not remember.<p>

Before his mind could begin to panic, he heard the telltale signs of John approaching: soft groans from the floor, the (slightly more noticeable at the moment) dragging of one leg, a huff of annoyance after a small stumble and the awkward shuffle that truly made John's gait distinctive.

"You've woken up, then? Good," said the partial, his voice rough- undoubtedly so because of his earlier strains.

A much older version of John's head appeared in Sherlock's vision. The lines in his forehead were deeper and longer, the ones next to his eyes looking as though they had been engraved with a knife and the dark circles beneath his eyes still darker and more expansive. The warm scent of blood wafted into Sherlock's nose, causing the return of his memories from earlier in the day.

His curiosity demanded that he find out how they had gotten back to the flat.

"What happened?"

John chuckled darkly, one of the few sounds he made that did not communicate his usual good nature.

"Well, after you passed out, The Custodian finished the exam, and between the two of us, we got you back here." There was open curiosity on his face, but the sobriety of his tone said that if Sherlock did not want to discuss his fainting episode, John was not going to push for information.

It was... kind of him.

Sherlock considered this while giving John a stern looking-over. The man's face was drawn and grey, and he had not lost the wretched cast of his features. His age, too, was still etched across him, again surprising Sherlock. The man's jaw was trembling slightly, confirming that he was on edge; try though he might to disguise it, John was firmly set in what he perceived as a vulnerable position: being locked in a conversation with someone who had seen him without his stoic, military demeanor. Movement from lower down caught Sherlock's attention and cut short contemplation of the former topic. One of John's fingers- on the human hand, the one he had bitten- was bandaged, but there were dark dots of maroon in the crisp, white fabric in places which matched the placement of John's teeth.

Another discovery: John had changed his clothing. Instead of the clothes from earlier, which had spoken of control and served as a reminder of his status as an ex-soldier, John was dressed in soft, navy blue sweatpants that were slightly too long and a plain white t-shirt. He had thrown on a black dressing gown as well, though it- like all John's clothes, as Sherlock was beginning to be shown- was slightly too large. In all, John had had morphed from someone who was in control to a man who was trying to be as comfortable as possible.

Oddly, however, he did not seem worried or uncomfortable. If anything, John appeared resigned and almost used to whatever he had experienced earlier in the day. It was still hanging about him, obviously, and was of concern for the partial or John would not have changed.

The sound of three no-nonsense knocks on the door startled them from the thoughtful reverie into which they had fallen.

"That'll be Mrs. Hudson," John said, his voice thin.

As he moved to answer the door, one of Sherlock's hands shot out and grabbed his wrist. Single eyebrow quirked, John looked down at his hand, a strange look that Sherlock could not quite recognize skipping across his face. Curious, he, too, looked down, trying to find something important in the way his long fingers were wrapped around John's warm wrist.

Perhaps it was the contact? No, that would not make him look so... longing? It was difficult to find the reason for the expression when Sherlock could not identify it. It was a mixture of many things: sadness, wistfulness, curiosity, even regret.

"Mr. Holmes," the android said, his voice firm. "I've got to answer that."

"No."

"I'm sorry?" The soft features rearranged themselves into disbelief.

"No, John. I cannot- I do not wish to spend any more time with that... Mrs. Hudson."

A huff.

"That's not-"

"John," he murmured, voice soft and serious.

Two blue eyes looked steadily into his and refused to break contact until they found... something. Whatever it was, John seemed to find it.

"I'll talk to her, but, Mr. Holmes, we're going to have to discuss this."

Sherlock nodded solemnly as the short man turned and walked away, limping heavily.

The ceiling was still as he listened to the quiet conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson, his hands clenching and unclenching as he waited for whatever was to come. It was unpleasant, being forced to wait rather than to move ahead, and his fists soon shook from the tension he failed to release.

By the time John returned, Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he turned his head to indicate that he was awake.

"All right, then. She agreed to let me take the measurements in her place, so she's working on some other things she had to do. We don't have all day, though; she'll be back in about ten minutes."

Sherlock smiled then, small and relieved. John's streak of consideration was proving to be more than that; it seemed that he had a strong proclivity for watching over others.

It was good, very good.

* * *

><p>John's body fervently protested its current position. It wanted to be in the shower with warm water loosening the bunched muscles and relieving the tension it was harboring. After that, it wanted to lie down on something soft, though the old bed would have to do, it supposed. Instead, it was kneeling down, taking the measurement of a strange man's inside leg.<p>

To say that it was unhappy about the arrangement would be an understatement.

John's mind, however, had no time for complaints of the flesh. It was immersed in contemplation of the strange man, as well as the almost guilty enjoyment it took from having another, living- _breathing- _person nearby. John was a social creature, someone who needed to interact with other beings, and it had been too long- _far too long-_ since he had been this close to anyone.

His mind was titillated by it, the presence of Sherlock Holmes, so much so that it was unaware of the passage of time and what the body was doing. Only the unpleasant scratch of writing on paper with a pen- the body recording the strange man's measurements for Mrs. Hudson- pulled it from its dazed state.

The years had been lonely as they passed, but that was no reason for John's mind to forget itself. It and the body were not to exist separately anymore, not after the battle in the nameless place in the sand, and spending even a short time apart would exact a heavy toll on the whole John.

It tentatively sought out the body's presence, and upon finding it, called it back. The body responded to the mind's call eagerly; it, too, had felt the wrongness in the separation. Slowly, carefully, they allowed themselves to reconnect. It had been a long time since they had had to reconnect, so they wanted to be sure to re-knit every passageway between them.

Time inside a body moves much more slowly than time without, so though it took them hours to recreate the whole John, it was only a second in the world with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>John blinked once, twice. His head felt as though someone had set it alight, and his vision was black. Though it had been years since he had experienced it, he immediately recognized the pain and momentary blindness for what they were: the tell-tale signs that he had split.<p>

He shook his head, and the blackness immediately receded, though his head began to throb as though it had its own heartbeat.

Any chance he might have had earlier of getting sleep disappeared.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had studied John while his body was transformed into numbers. The partial's hands had been gentle and applied only minimal pressure to his skin- more evidence that supported Sherlock's theory that John had known another lab rat.<p>

The care John took was not the only thing that Sherlock noticed, however. He also noticed the way John's eyes had lost the softness in the corners and the way his lips were pressed tightly shut. The lines in his face stood out like they had earlier in the day, but no screams tore from him. He was silent; even his breath refused to be heard. It was as though someone had reached into his head and pulled out whatever it was that gave him spark, rendering him thoughtless, blank. There was no _John _in the man before him. There was only a body.

As he recorded Sherlock's measurements, however, the spark flickered back into John's eyes. One moment he was silent and drawn. The next, he blinked, and there was again the soft, open set to his face and warmth in his eyes. His face was still grey, though, and his features were twisted in a grimace.

There was, it seemed, yet another level to John Watson. Or, perhaps, this was the soldier level in him.

* * *

><p>A pair of candle-smoke grey eyes regarded him solemnly as John picked up the paper with Mr. Holmes' measurements and strode across the room. His head swam with each step, and his body protested every movement vigorously. He needed to curl up in his bed so he could sleep off the "hangover," as he and the others had called them, but he had said that he and Mr. Holmes needed to talk, which was true. The man's reluctance- if so mild a word could be used for it- to see Mrs. Hudson was going to be problematic, and it needed sorting out. It was the only decent thing to be done.<p>

John opened the door to 221B, careful not to overstep and wind up arse over tit in the shaft, and used the sticky back side of the paper to paste it to the outer side of the door so Mrs. Hudson could simply stop by and grab it.

Sighing slightly, he looked back in and discovered that Mr. Holmes had already stretched himself out on the sofa, naked feat resting on the far arm rest.

With a resigned shake of his head- a poor decision, judging by the flare of pain and momentary blindness that accompanied it- John set about making two hot cuppas.


	12. A Laying of Hands

_A/N: I'm finally breaking my hiatus in the hopes that getting this wretched chapter out of the way (and finishing "18 Letters") will let the story flow again. More importantly, though, thank you all so much for your lovely wishes that my health improve and for all your patience. You've been wonderful!_

* * *

><p>The air was neither cold nor hot but a neutral temperature as they sipped their cups of tea- both generic black tea, though John's had milk and honey while Sherlock's had a single sugar. He studied John over the rim of his cup, grey eyes taking in the tension in the former soldier's muscles, the carefully unassuming position he had in the reclining chair. He was obviously trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible, which would have been easy, were the target of his attention not Sherlock Holmes. Most people- humans, fulls and partials- would have overlooked John with his plain looks and his soft expressions; they would be taken in by his easy spirit and small, calm aura. Perhaps lab rats, distrustful of partials as they tended to be, would be wary of John, but it wasn't the odd mixture of human and machine that made Sherlock pay close attention to the man in the chair.<p>

No, Sherlock was taken with John because the partial was interesting and had a depth that was often lacking in someone who had experienced the horrors of not only becoming a half-breed (as people who felt they were an abomination called them) or of being a soldier and the personal hell that would have created, but of both. Somehow, John was able to see past his own misfortunes and had taken Sherlock in. If the world were the way it had been hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of years ago, John would have been the type of hero people loved, rather than reviled.

After a few moments, Sherlock noticed that John was returning his look. His gaze was somber, almost regretful.

_He doesn't want to pry,_ Sherlock realized,_ but he feels that it is necessary, so he's doing it in his own way. How very... interesting._

* * *

><p>From nearly the moment he had met Mr. Holmes, John had known that the younger man would be a watcher. He had the mobile eyes and easy manner common among certain people with whom John had worked, the type of person who could easily sit in the same position for hours during a watch and wait period or subtly slip into an gathering and slip into the persona of someone else.<p>

Equipped thus with this knowledge, John had not been particularly surprised to find himself being scrutinized by the other man, though the frequency did make him curious. He'd never been watched so closely, so often as he was by Mr. Holmes. It was somewhat unsettling, in part due to John's lack of experience being watched- as he did not count the times people, real _humans_, had looked at him, mouths wide and gaping at him, the "perversion of nature," the man who ought to be dead, the freak- but also due to the weight of Mr. Holmes' gaze. His eyes were light as they observed him, but they followed him closely.

It was... not entirely bad, John supposed.

Annoyed at himself, he shook his head. He and Mr. Holmes needed to have an important, if uncomfortable, discussion, and as such, he ought to be in the mindset of a doctor, not that of... whatever it was he had been thinking.

Drawing a breath to compose himself, John began, "Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock."

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock, my name, please use it. You saved my life, John; the least I can do is put us on even footing."

John shook his head. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that _Mr. Holmes_ knew. He was, however, curious to find out how. The Partial Laws, though mostly obsolete and used only by older partials and bigots, weren't in many textbooks or the subject of much scrutiny. After all, who would want to be reminded of a nation-wide trend of bias?

As an older partial and one who had served in the military, John was well-accustomed to people's bigotry. Adhering to the laws was a practice that had kept him safe longer than any empty reprimand from his superiors or the doleful click of a thumb releasing the safety on a gun that didn't actually exist ever had. Respecting the laws was an ingrained part of him; he couldn't break their hold based on some frivolous words that may as well have been uttered by someone in a romantic movie for all their worth.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock," came the firm reply.

John shook his head again.

"Mr. Holmes-"

This time he was cut off by two hands suddenly gripping his shoulders. For all the implied violence of the gesture, the long-fingered hands cradled John's tender skin and joints, and without John's permission, his body relaxed into the touch. It had been years since he had felt such warmth, the real warmth of someone whose body was filled with rushing blood, and the suddenness of the gesture was temporarily enough to override John's ability to react.

When he did finally gather himself up, he found Mr. Holmes studying him again, this time with a type of necessity, a _need _on his face, that John immediately understood. He was being asked whether he would give his trust to this man he barely knew, of if he would stay with what he knew.

Years ago, John had been a soldier and a medic. He'd entrusted thousands of men he didn't know with his life, with the lives of the ones he loved- back when he'd had them. Then he'd become a damn good monitor, and now he was forced to trust that invisible people would keep him safe as he dug through the records of places filled with people who experimented on other people.

"John," asked the man, his voice fluttering, and the partial found himself drawn to his almost-captor's face.

His old therapist had said that he had trust issues; she just hadn't said what kind.

* * *

><p>Sherlock saw the change in John the moment he placed his hands on him. The former soldier had tensed, then eased into Sherlock's delicate touch, a response to Sherlock's presence that had been the opposite of what Sherlock had been expecting. Instead of following the tensing by giving himself over to adrenaline and his reptile brain, counting on them to send him into fight or flight, John had been overwhelmed by a simple laying of hands.<p>

Had it truly been so long since someone had touched him? The Partial Laws had been strict, from what Sherlock had gathered, but surely John would have been worth it? His body had been irreparably damaged, true, but he was hardly unappealing. Were Sherlock the type of person who enjoyed the aesthetics of human faces, he might have even said that John was... attractive, in the way his features were common and soft, like weathered stone.

As they stood together, bodies much closer together than either had been to someone in years, Sherlock studied the tiny, fleeting changes in John's face as the partial pondered the unspoken question of trust. It was a strange thing for Sherlock to ask, as he had never put much faith at all trust; it was too fragile, too personal. It could shatter people and make them foolish, and Sherlock had no need of anything so potentially damaging. John's trust, however, didn't seem as unstable as the trust of doctors and scientists. It was much more real, and Sherlock found himself craving it, yearning for something that would draw John closer to him.

Finally, after countless seconds- one hundred ninety four- John's face told Sherlock that he'd come to a decision, and as the lab rat watched, John caught his eye and, ever so slowly, nodded.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Also, due to the fact that this story seems to be heading for a true M/MA/M+/etc. rating, I'm only going to be updating it on AO3 (Information can be found at my profile) soon. Sorry for the inconvenience, but that's where stories with violent themes (which this one has) are allowed._


	13. Gathering Data

_An excerpt from Jameson and Hall's _The Simplified Partial Laws & The Spirited Creatures They Control_:_

_...No half-man nor -woman may be called upon to serve in his or her most primitive need: to continue the species. They are no longer part of our race, and the moment their bodies have received their metallic transplants, they are less. There is no dignity in the fear of death, in cowardice to face the almighty moment, and those former people who would not accept the end they were dealt must not be permitted to continue their line among the dutiful. Theirs is a half life, one full of checkups and repeated refusal to accept the unavoidable: death._

_Have no compassion for them, for they have made their choices and must therefore survive the consequences. There is no one who has not been given a choice in the future of his or her body. All have known the unnatural and grotesque state they will be given, and none have had their bodies perverted without express understanding and acceptance._

* * *

><p>Tired to the bone, John looked into Sherlock's eyes and nodded. The hands on his shoulders clasped him slightly tighter, though whether it was through a reaction to the loss of tension or some other reflex, John could not say. What he could say, however, was that the hand on his weaker, inhuman shoulder was applying less pressure than the other. Again, John had no idea if it was through a repulsion, a distaste for the unnatural state of that side of John's body or something else, possibly concern.<p>

Either way, he would accept it.

Though the nearly completely silent exchange had somewhat derailed his plan for an important chat, the train was still chugging toward the end of the line.

"Sherlock-" The man nodded, obviously pleased with himself. "Sherlock, we do need to discuss your reaction to Mrs. Hudson." The pleased expression slid away and was replaced by white-lipped tension. "No, no, don't go there. I know what you're doing, and I need you not to do it."

"What is it I'm doing, then?" came the hoarse reply.

John smiled sadly. "You're avoiding thinking about something that upsets you, but you're letting the emotions of the memory- because it is a memory, I know it- you're letting them come. It's something people do to punish themselves, Sherlock, and though I know it will make you unhappy, I need you to tell me what happened."

When he received no reply, John took the hands on his shoulders and brought them to his lap. There, he clasped them in his own worn ones. His unspoken support so established, he settled in to wait.

* * *

><p>Of all the things Sherlock had hated about the experiments done to him, he reserved his darkest hatred for the ones that had altered his memory. He could recall every face and every expression it made that he'd ever seen since receiving the injections at the age of- and this was an approximation, something upon which he did not rely but used as a guide- four and a half.<p>

There was no puzzle shown to him he could not mentally recreate, no photograph's detail he could not remember nor passage he could read as though it were before him. All of it and more- every sensation of voice or body, of music or nails, even scents and tastes pleasant and foul- all had a place carefully carved into a place against his skull.

He had nothing to give them reality, however. They may as well all be auditory memories, things someone had read to him dispassionately, for all they meant to him.

The sound of a dog baying, or the scent of fresh bread?

He cared nothing for them. They were simply information with no basis in his life.

Buried beneath them, tucked between the pain-memory of too-long legs trapped in a too-small cage and the oral-memory of bile was a single memory Sherlock knew to be true. This memory had multiple layers; it had elements of physical senses as well as emotional responses. He had lived this memory and had, despite its nature, kept it tucked somewhere it could not be taken from him.

Now, after years of hiding the memory, of keeping its contents pure, John was asking him to reexamine it. He was asking Sherlock to relive his only memory that predated the injections and doctors with sterile gloves, to become a tiny child once more and watch again as the most violent night of his life unfolded before him.

Before Sherlock could answer him, however, John took his hands and tucked them between his own, keeping them warm with his own skin, blood and strange substance that seemed to pulse warmly in his artificial hand- something Sherlock would ask John to explain later.

The time at hand did not belong to inquiry. It belonged to John and his request, which Sherlock had resolved to answer with whatever truthfulness he could find.


	14. Burning

_A fire is burning high, swallowing down a small, rural house. Despite the small size of its fuel, the flame extends far into the sky, an arm and clenched fist sending out a signal of the fury building inside the heat beast. _

_There are screams and shouts from inside the roaring blaze._

_Loudest come a mother's wails. She howls with maternal fury as though a mother bear, her entire existence filled with hatred for this threat to the lives of her children. Crawling on the floor, alone, she screams an inhuman challenge, daring the fire to come to her, and if she could do what she so wished, the mother would have surged to her feet and fought the burning intruder with fist and nail and foot. She would wrap her hands around its neck and wrestle it into submission, but she is no combatant. Though she is strong, she cannot fight this threat to her children's lives, and the desperation that builds in her chest rips forth with a contemptuous screech that is heard even over the fire's cackles._

_Hers is a violent death, loud with hatred._

_Much softer than the mother's screams are a father's rumbles. He kneels against the door to his study, unable to unlock it, and makes deep noises in his chest. His noises are muttered challenges mixed with desperate keens. His children are in this dying house, but instead of by their sides, he is trapped in a sweltering room that is quickly filling with smoke. He shifts his stance, body older than he needs it to be, and renews a previous assault on the door. He throws his too-thin body at it and is rebuffed, only to return with bloodied fingers with which he scratches at the surface of the thing that's keeping him from his little ones. With a final noise, he makes his final sound and breathes his last._

_A quiet man in life, he leaves the world with the sound of a bloodthirsty war cry._

_The door suddenly bursts open and a middle aged woman dashes from the front of the house, two bundles kept close. One is a small boy, his mouth covered with a shirt and pressed to her shoulder. The other is an older boy, perhaps just reaching adolescence, though he, too, has his mouth covered by a shirt as he breathes huffing breaths of clean air through it and the woman's dress._

_Hurrying toward the front field, she is stopped when a truck, one of the few remaining remnants of the type from current times, barrels toward them, barely halting in time not to get dangerously close._

_Three men in dark military gear and a young woman in a lab coat jump out and make their way to the woman and children._

_"You've got him, then?" asks the younger woman. __The elder nods. "Give him here, then."_

_One of the men steps forward and pries away the small bundle tucked against his nurse's body. The man then carries the young boy to the woman in the lab coat and moves aside._

_After passing a few moments assessing the boy's health, the scientist nods._

_"He'll do."_

_Another man steps forward and presses a small bag into the nurse's waiting hands._

_"There you are, Judas," he says mildly. "Think you wanna count it first?"_

_Shaking her head, the nurse replies, "I've no need. Judas' coins were true, if bloodied. So, too, will my own."_

_The groups parted, then, the group from the truck returning to their vehicle while the nurse and her charge beginning to walk to the nearest neighbor's._

_As they reach the truck, however, the woman turns around, facing the men behind her._

_"You know what? I've changed my mind. They're a liability; get rid of them."_

_A purring of guns and a few wretched shrieks later, the truck's driver has his foot pressed to the floor, carrying the researcher and her small squad back to the safety of the laboratory._


	15. Analyzing Data

The hands between John's began to shake as Sherlock recounted the memory-reaction Mrs. Hudson's presence had triggered. They tightened into fists, the knuckles stood above the flesh of the hand, when he described the sounds his mother and father had made with the last of their lives, then started clawing at John's hands when, despite being in the blank state of someone reliving something distant and tragic, Sherlock's harsh whisper cracked as he spoke of the maid's betrayal.

John didn't let go of them, and he didn't ask Sherlock to loosen his grip, despite the pain it sparked.

Instead, he waited and listened. He took each image as it was presented and fit it into the scenario he'd already created. Each memory was then analyzed for its long-term effects and overall relevance, after which John let it be.

...for the time being.

* * *

><p>As Sherlock was exhausted by the end of his narrative and barely conscious, John decided that it would be best to leave the man on the sofa. It was comfortable enough, certainly more so than other places in Baker Street, and John didn't want to move Sherlock more than was necessary.<p>

Having swung the man's legs onto the sofa and stretched Sherlock out, John started to walk away, only to be stopped by a soft,

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I... would prefer not to be alone."

Nodding, because he understood what Sherlock meant, John returned to the sofa, helped the other man to his feet and carried him into what was becoming their bedroom.

He laid Sherlock on the bed, pulled the covers forward and tucked them around the lab rat's eerily still form, watching the too-thin man breathe, his breaths having slowed down and even out.

Something still told John that something was off, though.

Convinced he'd given Sherlock as much physical and little emotional comfort he had to offer, little though that was, John turned away and went to the far corner, from which, after pulling at a few floorboards, he extracted a small electronic device.

Walking back to the bed, he eased himself atop it, stretched out, put his pillows into a more comfortable position and crossed his legs; thus arranged, he cast a quick glance back at Sherlock's face and settled in to use one of the last laptop computers left.

That night was going to be a night of research and probable law breaking, but John had a theory he needed either to disprove or validate.

* * *

><p>While in his cage, Sherlock had, when possible, dreamt of movement, freedom and never returning.<p>

Now freed, his dreams were of his childhood.

* * *

><p>This is the final chapter for FF, I'm afraid. Things will be taking a turn for the dark after this, so if you're still interested in it, you can find it on AO3. Thank you.<p> 


	16. AN

Dear Readers,

I'm terribly sorry this isn't a proper chapter/update. I'm afraid I've run into some trouble. I've lost most of my sparkle for writing about _Sherlock_. More pressing, however, IRL I'm decidedly less than healthy, with good health not in the immediate future. I'm trying to wrap up what I can, but in this case, I'm just too far from an ending.

So there are three choices for YRM, from what I can see:

A) I can do some extremely erratic updates, possibly of one/year kind.  
>B) I can orphan this and hope some kind soul takes this.<br>or  
>C) One of yousomeone you know decides to take this over. (If someone does take this, I have a request. Beginning anew is fine and changing how you go about things, but I'd like to keep my name with the story. It's selfish, yes, but I do have a sincere attachment to this. Saying it was a kind of prompt from me or, indeed, saying it was a bit of a baton-pass, would be wonderful.)

Please leave me your thoughts. They mean a great deal, and I really haven't a clue how to proceed- only that beginning a story that people have enjoyed and leaving it untouched is wrong.

Regretfully,  
>columbine-and-asphodel<p>

P.S. You're a wonderful audience, and your comments have always made my days better.  
>I'm deeply sorry I haven't been able to finish this.<p> 


	17. Another AN Great news!

I have come to a conclusion, and I think it's one that will satisfy everyone!

A dear friend of mine, ongreenergrasses, has done me a massive favor and honor by agreeing to co-write YRM so she and everyone else can have an ending. I'd actually been secretly hoping I could get her to take over for me but didn't want to pressure her, because she's got her own busy schedule and fleet of lovely works (which I highly recommend you read, by the way). She offered, though, so now she's stuck with me.

_Cue maniacal laughter_.

Anyway, I'm not sure what the updating schedule will be like- we've got a lot of work to do, sorting through the plot I haven't really got and such- but it'll be better than abandoning it or updating once every decade or so. Plus, you get to keep me (and get someone who's even better, too)!


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